


Goldpoint

by kingbooooo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: AA Terror Edition, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, James just wants to die in peace but Francis won't let him that asshole, M/M, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Racism, Was going to be PWP but then feelings got involved, can I make dental work sexy? I can try, falling for your enemy who is also trying to detox, fuck first ask questions later, includes boning for more stability, so much introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21857548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: What was it that Fitzjames had that Francis didn’t that so endeared him to Franklin?  Everything, clearly, Francis’ stomach curdling.  Fitzjames was English.  He was elegant, witty, charming.  Francis’ tongue involuntarily touched his teeth, feeling the little gap, as opposed to Fitzjames’ handsome, mostly even smile.- - -After the confrontation in the wardroom, Captain Crozier and Commander Fitzjames have it out, in more ways that one.  But self-loathing and infatuation do not mix well, particularly in the Arctic.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 108
Kudos: 225





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> content warning, in later chapters there will be loss of teeth

“Just live men or dead men.” Crozier’s angry, flashing eyes were always there when James’ closed his, that violent smashing of his fist on the table, a considerable overreaction, in James’ estimation to his comment. The words echoed in his head too, at any quiet moment, alone in his berth trying to read or rest or collect himself and his wounded pride. Horrible awful Francis, thought he knew so much better than Sir John, better than everyone, just because he’d been to colder climes once or twice. Watch, Crozier, they would be fine, through to the Pacific in no time at all. Miserable, small man.

Still, when Sir John had asked James to go to Terror while they were anchored at Beechey Island, James felt his stomach clench, despite the sureness of his superiority. He wanted nothing to do with Captain Crozier, his words still stinging every time he thought of them. That and the mocking tone he’d taken during that dinner. James had heard mention of someone refusing Francis. Of course they would, whoever she was, who would want to anchor themselves to such a disagreeable person? No tact, no charm, and working himself into a roaring case of alcoholism. He’d never get his own command at this rate. Crozier could at least have the decency of pretending to be impressed at any of James’ stories. It was only polite, not that such courtesies meant much to him, apparently. James sighed and dressed, trying to contain his tendency towards theatrics. It wouldn’t be a far boat ride, but it was still cold outside. What the hell was it Sir John wanted him to bring? Right. James found the letter. Some trifling correspondence.

“We should be nicer to him,” Sir John had said, holding the envelope out. “Remember what I said about if something should happen to me-”

James had flapped a hand. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Sir John. You’re as hale and hearty as any of us!”

Sir John had laughed and patted his stomach. “Not as all of you. But I do not intend to go anywhere. Still. Be more charitable, even if it sets your teeth on edge. Please try.”

Fine. He would try, for Sir John. But no promises were given, no oaths sworn that James would feel guilty about if and when Francis inevitably provoked him. Sighing again, he pulled his peaked cap on, making his way to the deck.

“Be charitable,” he reminded himself as the boat glided across the water. “For Sir John.”

\- - - 

Francis had the map rolled out across the table, a glass in one hand, his fingers tracing around King William Land, stopping at the spot he’d argued to Sir John to winter over. He tapped at it before spreading his hand across the map as though to cover his misgivings.

He’d tried. Francis could console himself with that thought when they got stuck in the ice, which they would. He hadn’t really thought he’d been able to convince Franklin of the merits of his proposal, but at least he would be able to face Sophia if they ever made it home safe.

What if Franklin was right? What if the leads did open up and they found that godforsaken passage? All the way to the Pacific, nothing but open skies and clear water and the undying gratitude of the Royal Navy. They’d be heroes. And the only people who would know of Francis’ alarm, his cautiousness in the face of the siren song of exploration to find and discover and conquer, the only ones would those in that wardroom conference.

Franklin would never let him forget it, would let it slip to Lady Jane and Sophia. Blanky, who’d agreed with him, his dearest and perhaps only friend, would reassure him of his misgivings. “It was the wise choice, Francis,” he’d say. Le Vesconte, Irving, the rest, their opinions didn’t matter a whit to Francis.

And Fitzjames. God, how he hated that man, Franklin’s pretty little lapdog.

“Try to shake the brown study, Francis.” It had taken nearly all his self-control not to tell Fitzjames where he could stuff that brown study, or even worse, given him a short shove overboard. Francis had not regretted his words in the meeting, not one bit. Melodramas. He could feel his lip curling at the thought of it. Fitzjames, thinking he was so witty. The only thing he had any remorse for was the sugar bowl. It had done nothing wrong.

Francis was so lost in his thoughts, reliving and relishing that slow dumb blink, the way Fitzjames’ mouth had quirked in as though he was trying to come up with some clever response and failing that he did not register the soft knock at the door. It wasn’t until a second knock and a muted “Sir?” from Jopson that Francis had occasion to look up from the map.

“Yes?”

The door opened, Jopson’s large eyes apologetic.

“Sir, I know you wished to work in peace, but, well,” he paused.

“Captain, I bring tidings from Sir John.” The voice arrived momentarily before he entered, that lanky form, a hand pulling the hat off that dark shiny hair.

God truly had abandoned him here in the north. Bloody Fitzjames. Christ, he could use a drink, Francis downing the last of it and steeling his resolve.

\- - - 

James thought it best to just ignore the whole incident. It was a harmless flip remark and then Crozier had, he’d fucking banged the table with a closed fist, upsetting the fine china. And then he’d sneered, sneered at James as though he was some ship’s boy on his first voyage and not a seasoned veteran of both battles and the ocean. He’d nearly snarled, that rough voice barely restrained.

“There’ll be no melodramas here,” his lip curling in disgust. James tried to push it away, the entire thing playing out over and over on the trip over. How many times was it? He’d lost count. Perhaps he should take a page from Crozier’s book and drink until he couldn’t remember it. He tamped those thoughts down, manfully trying his best, knowing full-well that his cheeks were enflamed. The cold. Could blame it on that.

Crozier looked up from the table, the angry disappointment plain on his face. Plain as well was his state of sobriety, or rather, his mere acquaintance with it at the moment, his eyes slightly watery, a flush across his pitted cheeks. James imbibed, but never more than would prevent him from keeping a clear head. He found himself grimacing at Crozier’s blatant disregard for his crew.

He held out the letter. “Sir John.”

“And he couldn’t signal?” Crozier snatched the letter out of his hand, another small barbed gesture of disrespect. 

James clasped his hands behind his back.

“Jopson, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Of course, sir.” The steward nodded to both of them before ducking out, the door closing with a firm click, Crozier’s eyes narrowing at James the moment it shut.

“Well?”

Good lord, would it kill him to treat James with even a fraction of respect that he was owed? The barest trace of civility? Sir John had not said it specifically, but if they were to find and traverse the Passage, they would need at least to treat each other politely, wouldn’t they?

James paused. How to raise this? Crozier was apt to take any suggestion poorly. The time for circumspection was not now. Best to be blunt.

“We should try to get along better, you and I,” he said, meeting Crozier’s eye.

“I-what?” His eyes narrowed again.

“Sir John. He won’t say it directly to you, you’ve seen how he can be,” _when confronted directly with strong ideas_ went unsaid, “but he wishes those directly under his command would…not be so poorly with each other,” James finished lamely. He looked down at the table.

“Not King William Land again?” he asked, frowning.

\- - - 

Francis squinted. Civil with Fitzjames? Was this truly what Franklin wanted? Of course he did. He was dedicated to undermining Francis at every turn, including some kind of forced companionship with this prat. He had apparently not suffered enough.

“If Sir John wants us to be, what, brothers in arms, then he can ask himself. Otherwise, I have work to do.” He turned, tearing the letter open.

“He sent you to deliver this?” Francis turned, holding the missive up. “So glad to know that Sir John values my candor. Thrilled. I shall be sure to note it in my personal journals.” His voice was nothing but unveiled disdain. When other officers were about, Francis could contain his angry contempt, but not here, in his own quarters. That he was due. “And yes, I am still looking at King William Land.” 

Francis tossed the letter across the table, the paper fluttering in a most unsatisfying manner. On reflection, he should have crumpled it up first. He took the enveloped, crunched it in his fist and threw it as well.

“Go back to him. I’m sure he would love your detailed analysis of my reaction.” Francis didn’t look back up from the map until he realized he hadn’t heard the sound of Fitzjames leaving. Did the man not even know when he was being dismissed? His head moved up slowly, confirming that Fitzjames was still present rather than disappearing into the aether like a bad dream.

Prancing, mincing Fitzjames. Handsomest man in the navy? Francis nearly snorted in derision. How he hated Fitzjames and his endless repetition of his stories; each time he heard about the Chinese sniper, there was some additional embroidery. Why, by the time they reached the Pacific, that story would be five hours long and near enough recitations that the crew could play every part on stage. Francis, of course, would be the sniper. He tried not to smirk at the thought.

What was it that Fitzjames had that Francis didn’t that so endeared him to Franklin? Everything, clearly, Francis’ stomach curdling. Fitzjames was English. He was elegant, witty, charming. Francis’ tongue involuntarily touched his teeth, feeling the little gap, as opposed to Fitzjames’ handsome, mostly even smile.

He was also as shallow as a puddle, all flash and no depth, which clearly was what Franklin cared about, appearances entirely, merits be damned. Francis would very much like to deck Fitzjames if he didn’t leave.

“What,” Francis said through gritted teeth, “do you want?”

Fitzjames shuffled a bit, looking at his fingers.

“I know what you think of me, or least I can hazard a guess. I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle.”

Francis could feel his face flush.

“We will be in this for the foreseeable future, and you can hide yourself on Terror, but we must figure out some way to work together, at least in some manner so that we’re not flinging invisible daggers at each other.”

He wished to do no such thing. Hating Fitzjames gave him a well-needed distraction from hating himself.

“Get off my ship,” Francis said slowly, dangerously quietly. He knew he was treading into uncharted waters, but Fitzjames didn’t need to know that. “Sir.”

Francis had made a mistake. He’d been able to knock Fitzjames back on his heel once before, but he’d had the advantage of surprise. Yes, Francis was the superior officer, but it seemed there was steel under that flashy façade, Fitzjames’ eyes flashing as his cheeks reddened.

For a moment they stood, staring at each other like two dogs sizing each other up for a fight, Fitzjames’ face hardening into one of deep anger.

“No,” came the reply.

\- - - 

He was not going to back down. Not this time. He’d been humiliated once before. No, twice. Besides, if they were going to have it out, better here in private than out in the open where God and everyone could see.

“No,” he’d said, feeling his face flush hot with anger, blood roaring in his ears. The anger at Crozier, the disrespect. That was the only reason for it. Blood was rushing to other places as well.

“What?” Crozier’s voice was still quiet.

“Not until we sort this out. You may not respect me or Sir John,” James took a step towards Crozier, who, surprised, moved back slightly, “but you respect this crew and this mission and we owe it to the men.”

“You know nothing of command,” Crozier hurled back. “And another thing-” he jabbed a finger at James, stepping in so they were close, very close indeed, James smelling the booze on his breath.

“What, another crack about Birdshit Island? Think you’re smart for that? As though I haven’t been having to prove myself to people like you my entire life.”

“People like me, who know better than you?”

 _People like my father._ James drew his arm back. No, he would not strike a superior officer.

“If you weren’t so goddamned morose-”

“Get off my fucking ship, Fitzjames! I’ll not ask again!”

“That’s Commander-”

James had gone too far in this little battle of wills, Crozier lunging at him as thought to shove him back, tripping though, James ably stepping aside. His instinct to help Crozier kicked in, though God knows where the hell that came from. He’d intended to arrest Crozier’s fall, instead getting slammed against the door with the force of Crozier’s body. The end result not what either had likely had in mind, James with the wind momentarily knocked out of him, thankful for the security and solidness, more than a little het-up, his clothes feeling tight, Crozier scrabbling at his jacket as though he was going to thrust him through the closed door by force.

“Had just-” Crozier growled, “about enough of you manhandling me, _Jeames_ ,” his eyes flashing.

James was about to retort something when he noticed that Crozier was, well, he’d gotten more than angry as well. James’ eyes opened wide, startled, Crozier’s gaze flicking down for a fraction, then back up to James.

Crozier shoved off of him, his face near crimson, turning away and swiping a hand across his mouth.

What was he doing? He _hated_ Crozier. Hated him, hated his relationship with Sir John, strained though it was, hated him being older and wiser, hated how cruel he could be. Hated him.

He was grabbing Crozier by the collar, startling him.

“We’re not done here,” James muttered.

“Oh yes we are-”

James had the upper hand this time, pinning Crozier to the wall with his hips, his erection hard against Crozier’s thigh. Crozier froze, his hands grasping at James’ wrists. His tongue darted out, wetting those thin sneering lips.

He could be lashed. Court-martialed. Left on this godforsaken spit of land. Hanged. And all Crozier had to do was say the word. The weight of such a fate hung heavy, Crozier’s chest rising and falling as he appeared to consider his options.

And then. Crozier was fighting, but not with James, rather with his clothes.

“My apologies, Fitzjames,” his voice nothing but derision as the jacket came off, or rather, was nearly flung off.

“Christ, you’re an asshole,” James said, tearing at Crozier’s waistcoat.

“Miscreant.”

“Peasant.”

Each insult, the anger softened slightly, the need only increasing, overwhelmingly so. He hated Crozier. And needed to see him. Touch him. Insult him. James’ hands slid between them, down the to the front of Crozier’s trousers, mapping where the erection was pressed, Crozier groaning. 

“Prancing…mooning…bastard,” Crozier panted, his eyes glassy as James palmed him.

“Mopey drunk.”

For that, Francis seized James’ wrists again, shoving James off him, back, back until he was tripping backwards into the berth.

“Oh God,” he groaned, Crozier backing him up against a wall. “Let go.”

Crozier complied, fumbling at James’ vest.

“I despise you,” he grunted.

James’ hands were under Crozier’s braces.

“And I, you,” James replied. He’d tugged a little too hard.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

Crozier was laughing hoarsely. “This is what you apologize for? Christ. Christ, Fitzjames.” He paused, his hands at James’ placket.

Was this when Crozier would make his move to implicate him? No. No, they were in this together and God he was hard. Needed Crozier to touch him. Hold him. See him, truly see him. His cock ached, his head a fog.

“Come this far, old man-”

Crozier leaned in, burying his face at the crook of James’ neck.

“Say that again, if you dare,” he said, running his teeth along the soft skin there.

“Old-”

Crozier thrust his hips into James, turning his words into a moan.

“Need to see you,” Crozier growled, his hands finally down James’ trousers, fingers finding his cock, obliterating all ordered thought. All that remained was need. Need for…anything. Everything. All of it.

From hated, spiteful Francis.

\- - - 

Godawful Fitzjames. Giving him such thoughts. Such ideas. Yes, it was clearly all his fault, his fault entirely for getting Francis in such a _state._

For all of his pretty sighs and delicate, dandyish hair, Fitzjames was no wilting flower. He had torn against Francis’ clothes, now scrabbling at him, fisting Francis’ shirt, hands flexing uselessly as Francis worked his cock, Fitzjames’ hips jutting up against him.

“Want to see you through it, through all of it,” he mumbled, Fitzjames’ cock, as best he could tell without looking on it, long like the rest of him, Francis tugging furiously at him.

Fitzjames swore quietly. He was near there, the fight finally leaving him, hips lips drawn back, eyes scrunched shut as he thrust up into Francis’ hands again. “I-” he let out a cry, taking care to muffle it with his fist as he spilled into Francis’ hand, Francis working against him as he finished, Fitzjames finally batting his hand away. All the starch had been washed out it seemed, James Fitzjames sagging like a sail with a broken line. His head lolled forward as he caught his breath.

“Frauncis…” he drawled out, eyes looking up.

“That’s Captain Crozier-”

Fitzjames pounced on him, seemingly recovered, back at the braces again, a hand running down Francis’ chest. He didn’t want this, strutting braggart Fitzjames touching him, tracing his hands down to his cock, pulling him out. Despicable man. He bit back a groan, those nimble fingers electric on him.

“What was that?” Fitzjames asked, his hand, what, was he stopping?

“Christ, don’t, don’t…”

“Don’t what, Francis?”

Francis’ head snapped up. He could only take so much teasing at the hands of this man. 

“Don’t stop, for God’s sake-” His hands struggled to find purchase on Fitzjames’ clothing, even in his state of dishevelment. 

“I live to obey.”

What a complete asshole. At least he complied, his hands at Francis’ cock, tugging him off, the other holding Francis steady at the waist, useful as Francis’ knees began to buckle, there, nearly, his need rushing headlong towards the edge.

“There we are Captain Crozer, there, come on now, don’t you wish to see how well I can serve you?”

Bastard.

“James, James, fuck, I, oh Christ.” He knew he was babbling, trying to keep his voice down, concentrating on those hands, Fitzjames biting his lip in concentration, as though Francis’ cock were the most fascinating thing in the world. “I-James!” With one final tug, he was spending, near collapsing on top of the dashing, miserable, sodding Commander Fitzjames.

“I’ll give you a moment,” James said, carefully extracting himself from Francis, who found himself sagging into his bunk. 

He was still out in the cabin when Francis emerged, having put his clothes back in order, James buttoning his jacket.

“Still here?”

James smiled. “Well, I thought I would confer before I left with my answer for Sir John. Do you think we have reached an accord?”

Francis wanted to punch that grin off his face. How dare he presume, how very dare, that was just, it was, what had happened was merely a moment of madness.

“You should get off my ship before I have you removed, Commander.”

At that, James’ face flashed ever so briefly to hurt, only for a fraction of a second, the smirk returning. He reached over for his hat, grabbing it off the table. While Francis was distracted with James’ artful misdirection, he took Francis’ hand in his, sweeping in low like a playactor, brushing his lips against Francis’ knuckles before Francis could snatch his hand back.

“I meant what I said. Do try to shake the brown study.” With that, he winked and grinned, flashing those well-kept teeth, put his hat on, and strode out, leaving Francis to splutter and blush and fume.

What had he done? What on God’s green earth had he done?


	2. Chapter 2

Being seated so close to Francis while listening to the lead party’s talk of the bear attack was intolerable. James didn’t dare look up, fearing that Francis wouldn’t look back, but even more afraid of what would happen if he did. He’d clearly been thoroughly dismissed by Francis. He surely did not object to that. Why would he? Francis was, he wasn’t James’ friend. Possibly still his enemy. And of course James still hated him. Of course he did. Which was why it was so troubling how often his thoughts drifted to the thoroughly cantankerous Captain Crozier. 

When the Eskie girl and her father were brought on board Erebus, the room had devolved, a hair away from complete mayhem. Francis had taken charge, bringing order to chaos. James had felt a touch of compunction at having judged Francis so harshly but he truly did invite such pity and contempt.

He’d regretted rolling his eyes at Francis when they’d sent out the leads, but could he help it? Francis had command of his own ship and they were off on an adventure! To be able to seize this world and bend it to their will, to be north, to chart their own destinies, why, it was the greatest thing any man could ask for.

But here was Francis, first lobbying to winter over when Erebus was damaged, fighting Sir John at every turn. And then, “travel well.” Travel well, as though the lead teams were off for a picnic or an afternoon hike. Travel well. It would probably kill him to put in a shade more effort. No wonder he wasn’t given command.

James regretted it, all of it, trying to pay attention to Goodsir. Francis, for his part was all restraint, although he’d been unable to hide his displeasure when Goodsir said he couldn’t help the Eskimaux man, Francis’ lip sneering upwards.

_Stop. Thinking. About. Crozier,_ he ordered himself, jerking his head as though to physically shake free such feelings, leaning back, tapping his finger to his teeth.

He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at, Francis or himself.

\- - - 

“Leads, doctor, did you find any leads?” Francis asked. Not that this wasn’t grimly interesting, the polar bear attack, the removal of the man’s tongue, but they needed a way out. Besides, it was a way to distract himself from Fitzjames, who was far too close for comfort.

He was trying to keep his tongue in check, no easy feat. They hadn’t been able to save the man. Then there was the blatant disregard for that man’s life by Franklin, which he expected, and Dr. Stanley, which disappointed him immensely, and James, which perhaps hurt the most. James probably thought anyone darker than a Spaniard was a savage. 

The walk back to the ship, the cold reaching her thready tendrils under his coat kept his senses sharp. Not sharp enough to clear his head of that day, James on him, his hands on him, that slim strong body, his hands, his fingers. Francis had meditated more on James’ hands the past few weeks than he ever had on nearly anything in his life. His mind swirled with ideas, ideas of inspecting each of James’ knuckles and fingerpads. Francis was being such a fool for such an obnoxious pest. It hurt to be so near, a dull ache in his chest, so near and unable to do anything. Thank god he was on the other ship. Francis shuddered to think of what would have happened if James had been under his direct command. He would have ordered him off the ship at Greenhithe. Or, he shook his head, smiling ruefully to himself, they would have torn each other to shreds.

Then there was the Netsilik woman. She said they were going to disappear, and all thoughts of Fitzjames and his hands were wiped clean.

Disappear? Not on his watch.

\- - - 

James had not intended to overhear Sir John’s dressing down of Francis. He’d heard Captain Crozier was aboard, and James had wanted to see him. No. No he did not. He, he…

Christ.

He’d missed him at dinner. Francis was absent frequently, and since becoming icebound, the dinners had grown more somber. Francis would have been right at home, James thought morosely. 

But he found himself outside Sir John’s cabin, and he’d heard. Not everything, but enough, enough to imagine how Francis’ face would redden with shame, that slant his eyes would have taken, that depth of hurt that Francis would try to hide by squinting, his lip curling up.

He imagined it, and then Francis had emerged and confirmed it, James’ insides twisting horribly as Francis eyed him with malice and remorse.

_I’m sorry, Francis,_ he wanted to say, but he chose not to. Not only because that would be terribly improper, but if he did, Francis would never forgive him. Those eyes, the way they’d narrow. Any apology, even the sincerest, Francis would see as pity.

Yet he couldn’t help himself. 

James waited until Francis was near the ladder, huffing as he replaced his hat, clearing his throat several times, not noticing James until he was right there. Sir John could wait.

“Captain Crozier,” James said, startling Francis who looked over at him, his face still flushed. 

“Francis,” he said quietly, more a simple mouthing of the word rather than saying it aloud.

Francis paused, his shoulders sinking.

“I…hmmm.” James touched Francis’ sleeve with his hand, light enough that Francis wouldn’t have been able to feel it through the heavy wool coat.

His expression shifted, meeting James’ worst assumptions, hardening as he shrugged off James’ touch. Francis striking him directly in the face could not have hurt worse.

“Captain.” James straightened, his face a blank slate. He was used to it, a bit of playacting. No one need truly see what was beneath, that ugly raw truth of who he was, a foundation built on shifting piecemeal lies.

He turned away.

James was also well-versed in doing things he should not. Rereading letters from acquaintances whom James fancied to see if there was any additional meaning to their perfunctory pleasantries. A shy glance, or two, or five during the course of a dinner party. Once he had very foolishly waited outside the home of a would-be paramour after he’d sent a letter, waiting to see their expression as they read it. But they had tossed it aside, and thus James, for not the first, or second, or third time, had done something he ought not to have done, and received a suitable punishment.

Which is why he found himself looking back.

Francis had paused a few rungs up, looking at James, his eyes less flinty. He sighed, looking down, then back up at James, giving him the smallest of nods before ascending, a gesture that nearly undid James, his heart knitting itself back together.

Lord, he was acting the fool. Sir John would be expecting him.

\- - - 

Sir John was dead.

Very dead.

Most certainly entirely dead.

And James was alive and near inconsolable. “Do you not see what has happened?” he’d asked, his eyes brimming with tears.

Francis had miscalculated how much the loss of Franklin would affect James, who appeared to be blaming him for not understanding that. Jesus, he couldn’t do anything right.

He’d spared a moment (really much more than a moment) to James when he was writing his letter to Franklin, interrupted, of course. Only now did he have the energy to contemplate the eerie timeliness of the animal’s attack.

Francis had considered a separate letter to James, although the second he’d thought of doing so, the ludicrousness of the idea became apparent. What the hell would he have written? Would he have been expected to write a missive to every officer? Why would Fitzjames have earned his own letter in the first place?

Truly, though, the idea of a letter to every man aboard diverted his attentions from what he would have written. 

_Commander Fitzjames. Terror is yours._

_Commander James Fitzjames. Consider this your newest addition to your collection of tales of swashbuckling derring-do._

_James. I am sorry. I will return._

All of it was ridiculous, and a moot point.

“One day,” he’d acquiesced, James looking up at him, his eyes bottomless and broken. He was acting as though he’d lost a parent, as though James was the only one who’d felt the shock and deep upwelling of grief. Francis and Sir John’s relationship was…not good. Certainly this was not how Francis would have wanted to leave it, but he’d make peace with it, somehow. Not now, though. Selfish James, thinking he was the only one who suffered. Francis would have hurled that at him if he’d been up to it, but as it was, he wanted to drink himself until he couldn’t recall that he was now in command with James as his second.

The other officers trailed out one by one, James taking his time. Francis let him, looking up only when James stood to go, the light catching a tear that was tracking down his handsome face. That old jealous beast uncurled in his stomach. Here? Now? How pointless, in the north, where their worries were not getting eaten by that thing. Avoiding death by frostbite. Scurvy. All of it. A most inopportune time to consider the cruelty of life to give James such charms, such fine features, unmarred even in his sorrow. Francis mentally scolded himself, sounding so moony.

James was buttoning his jacket, his back to Francis, shaking his head slightly. He though he heard a snuffle. This would not do. They did get along poorly, and it would not do at all, now, or going forward.

“James.”

James straightened, composing himself, a quick brush against his face before turning to face him.

“Francis.” He set his jaw, looking down, his hair in his eyes.

“I…”

This was absurd, given what had passed between them. Francis stepped in, grasping James’ forearms with his hands. “James, I am sorry. You must know Sir John’s death will weigh on all of us. I know that you were close. And I am sorry. Truly.”

Had he overstepped? James stood stick still, stiff and unyielding, Francis observing, unhappily, another tear tracing down the other cheek. He fully expected James to jerk away, perhaps with some kind of mocking smile, putting up that folding screen, so careful he was at not letting anything in. Francis wasn’t sure he’d ever seen James so unvarnished.

“Th-thank you, Francis.”

\- - - 

James felt as though he would never feel anything again, anything other than gnawing nothingness. He barely noticed his feet taking him to his berth. His uniform was on him. Had he put it on himself? Had someone helped him? He couldn’t recall.

There were bits and snatches of memory. Hearing the cry from Sir John for aid from Erebus. Grabbing the long gun. The noises, the awful noises, the scream, the leg. The leg, and nothing else.

James squeezed his eyes shut. He was a soldier, he’d seen worse, much worse, but for the rest of his days, he would never be able to forget the leg, the abruptness of one limb, so dark against the swirling snow.

The only other recollection was Francis. James had near begged to give it a day, one day to send out parties. One day, was that too much to ask? He’d expected Francis to say no. James was his second, but Francis had no room for the advice of subordinates, not in his state, and certainly not from James. They both seemed to have come to the unspoken agreement never to discuss that day in Francis’ cabin.

James had tried to jettison the memory. During the daytime, he was occupied. There was enough work to do, and if there wasn’t, he could make it. Review the inventory again. Check in with Dr. Stanley. Go topside and gaze towards the horizons and imagine how it would be to be sailing towards the Pacific, or back to England.

Nights, though.

Sleep did not come easily to James, his thoughts straying far afield. He wasn’t sure what was worse, revisiting the events of that day, or imagining all the things he’d do to Francis if asked. Either path left him achingly hard and unfulfilled, his own hands a poor substitute for Francis’, any moment of release following by near overwhelming mortification.

Sir John’s death, each time that word was thought, it rattled around in his head like a loose tooth. It was the only thing that freed his mind from retracing a circle around Francis. Francis, who only seemed concerned with how much he did not want to be in charge.

But Francis cracked. A truce, just. He stopped James as he was leaving, his hands on James’ arms, bringing James back into himself from where he’d been tossed about up high like a kite with a broken string. James stuttered out a thanks, and then, then he’d leaned forward, only barely, and Francis, god damn that infuriating man, he wrapped James in his arms, holding him awkwardly, as though he was unused to the gesture. All the resentment and hurt and confusion, all of it came roaring up and past James’ carefully constructed veneer, and he sobbed, wracking, heaving, ugly sobs into that comforting warmth.

If he were capable of preserving a memory as an insect in amber, James would have done so, setting himself in it as though it were a home, living out the remainder of his days there, so starved for a shred of humanity in this hellhole.

Finally he was able to control himself. Really, he should not have let Francis see how out of sorts he was. He shouldn’t have let anyone know. But if it were to be anyone, he supposed it could be Francis.

“My apologies, Captain.”

“You don’t owe me an apology,” Francis said. He sighed. “At least for that.” James couldn’t meet his eye, feeling Francis’ gaze on him.

_Pull yourself together,_ he ordered himself as they marched out onto the snow for the service, Francis stumbling over Sir John’s words as though he was unable to comprehend either the fact that Sir John was capable of such elegant writing or the irony of them being the ones to carry him into the great hereafter. Sir John would have appreciated the little cosmic joke, James thought.

The only way out would be together, James thought, his eyes betraying him, drawn to Francis. Together. The whole ship of men, of course. Not, not together with Francis. Francis and the crew. Francis.

James hoped, a tiny thing that lived in the corner of his mind, unwanted, but unwilling to be ousted, that this meant Francis and he…no. Of course not. Things could never be that uncomplicated.


	3. Chapter 3

Could anything go worse? Francis shouldn’t think that, as every time that thought passed through his mind, it inevitably did. What time was it? Too early to start drinking? Too late? His head pounded, reminding him that it had been a few hours since his last drink, and he was dangerously close to sobering up. He’d just been informed that most of the men had departed for Erebus, and Francis considered the possibility that he should just not stop drinking. There was a capital idea.

Someone was knocking.

_Bet Fitzjames will love that,_ Francis thought sourly, looking around at the dark cabin. He sighed, trying to recall how much liquor he had on hand before he’d need to send for more. And what did he have to drink away! A veritable cornucopia of options. The death of Evans. Francis would carry that one like a rock in his shoe the rest of his days. The last visit by the sun. Meting out punishment. He’d lost his temper, and he regretted that. Or maybe it was the intolerable weight of James fucking Fitzjames’ knowledge of Sophia’s rejections, or the fact that he’d known for ages, most like.

The knocking continued, bringing Francis back to the cabin, so dark and so very cold.

“Yes?”

Saints alive, he really was unable to catch relief, was he? Francis silently cursed a deeply indifferent Almighty as Fitzjames’ tall form ducked inside. He’d willed him here, hadn’t he, James drawn to the unquiet paths Francis’ mind wandered in any spare moment.

“What do you want?” he near snarled. “Come to congratulate yourself on taking most of my crew?”

“No. No. Lovely to see you too, Francis.” James held his hands in front in supplication. “Could I put on a light? I can barely see.”

Francis waved a hand, turning to find an extra glass and a bottle as well. Seating himself, he waited, appreciating, and despising himself for doing so, the way the light played off James’ features, which had only grown sharper since the start of the expedition. Unfair of him to have such a refined loveliness, wasted up here in the north. Francis let the silence stretch. He could wait James out.

“I…I came to sort things out. We ended badly.” James laughed, a harsh, mirthless thing. “We seem to do this quite a bit, you know. I feel as though I understand a bit of why you’re here-” 

“You know nothing, Fitzjames,” Francis scoffed, turning away. Why wouldn’t he leave? He could order him off Terror, though James seemed to like to do exactly as he pleased, chain of command be damned.

“No. I supposed I don’t know what it’s like to have my proposal scorned, but, no, please let me finish, Captain. Please.” His eyes met Francis’, who, unhappily, untensed slightly. Damn him. “I don’t know what it’s like to have to mete out punishment like that. I don’t know what that thing is that’s out there.” He paused, looking down, his locks falling across his cheek, sucking at his teeth as though trying to find more words, better words.

_He’s scared,_ Francis realized with a jolt. James, in the light, his hair in his eyes, looked young and frightened. Not the brash man in full uniform, gladhanding at a soiree or leaning across the table in the wardroom.

Naturally this is when the memory arose.

_I despise you._

_And I, you,_ had been the cheeky reply.

Did he despise James? He set the nearly-full glass down, angling himself towards Fitzjames.

“You were right, you know,” James said, still looking down.

“Please, let me wake Jopson, I’d like someone else to hear this,” Francis replied, trying to keep the tone light, failing, clearly, James looking up with eyes pinched with hurt, continuing on as though Francis had said nothing.

“The passage is…likely outside our grasp, isn’t it?”

Francis nodded slowly. “I believe so, yes.” He sat up, resting one arm on the table. The words he needed to say stuck in his throat, Francis having to force them out and praying Fitzjames wouldn’t notice how odd they sounded.

“You were right as well.”

James’ head snapped up, his chin jutting out the way it did when he was trying to get the lay of the land, a gesture to buy more time to think on what to say.

\- - -

“Oh?” The tone was conversational.

“Yes.” Francis sighed heavily, now not meeting his gaze. James let his eyes trace the contours of Francis’ face. Francis had smiled at him knowingly before James had let slip his conversations with Sir John on the matter of his niece. That smile, as though Francis was inviting him in, only to shove him back out rudely. How desperately he wanted back in. Francis’ voice had softened as well since the interrogation and then, God, the whipping.

James waited. This was not a matter to guess at. Besides, Francis seemed fond of waiting him out. Turnabout being fair play and all of that.

“My reasons for being here…” Francis shook his head. “Never you mind.” He stood, picking his way carefully to the window.

James waited again. He hadn’t been dismissed formally, and he would not leave until he was, his heart aching for Francis, half shame and half need. Francis had no notion of the power he had over James and how James agonized over every slight, every dismissal, every pointed refusal to look his way.

“If we found the Passage,” Francis ran a hand along the window frame. “No one would refuse me, despite my birth. How could they?” He looked back, towards James briefly.

_I wouldn’t,_ James thought. Underneath his sympathies, a note of joy sounded, unbidden, Francis having let his guard down for him. James stood.

This was treacherous land. More so than last time? Or any other time? Any glance? The slight touch of a hand to a sleeve? Francis had looked at him briefly as they’d filed in before the punishment, his gaze unreadable. 

“I’m sorry, Francis,” he said quietly.

“I don’t need your pity!” Francis turned, his voice full of anger. “I don’t-”

He’d overplayed his hand, forgotten his place. James found he did not care much, stepping forward and grasping Francis’ hands, stunning him into silence.

“I am sorry, for anyone who underestimated you. I did. Franklin did. Clearly, Sophia did.” He cleared his throat. “I do wish for us to get along better, although,” James gave a low chuckle, “last time I proposed that…”

Francis had gone quite pink, yanking his hands away, but not moving backwards, despite ample space to do so.

“You can go now,” he said curtly.

“Oh Francis,” James sighed. Francis’ brows pinched in anger. “Was that so bad? Was it truly so awful you won’t look at me?”

Terror was on a pressure ridge and being threatened with splitting in twain. So was James. He slipped an arm around Francis’ waist, surprising himself. “Was it? I didn’t think it was, but…” James shrugged. “Perhaps my recollection is faulty.”

“You forget yourself,” Francis muttered, looking up, making no movement to stop James, those blue eyes very deep in the poor lighting, his eyebrow arching high, betraying his feelings. James wanted to laugh. Francis, so easy to read.

He hadn’t thrown James off Terror yet, but the next move, James decided, Francis would need to make himself. He’d not be used by this man. If they were to sink, it would be together. James gave the barest of nods, finding himself enveloped in Francis’ arms, dropping his head to Francis’ shoulder as his other arm slipped around Francis. His entire body seemed to unbend reflexively.

“Francis,” James sighed into the shirt collar. It felt good to be held, to be touched, to feel Francis’ strong body against his. All the things he would do to Francis if given half a chance, but this, for now, was all he needed, the easy comfort of warmth and closeness, even from someone as utterly irascible and exasperating as Francis.

He felt warm breath on his shoulder, nestling his face against Francis’ neck. James was struck with the urge to kiss Francis, such a wild thought. They hadn’t done any such thing during their impromptu assignation, which could be written off as two men letting off steam, if only James hadn’t spent months reliving every moment and wondering what could have been if he had kissed Francis. Or held him close, or come back one evening.

“James, we mustn’t,” Francis mumbled.

“Why not?”

“You know why.” Francis leaned back so he could look James in the eye. “Beyond the obvious.” 

“Francis, it’s just us. Who would I tell? As though I wouldn’t also be implicated.”

Francis bristled. “Is that all this is to you?” He pushed back from James, frowning. There was a loud crack of the ice outside, the ship groaning in chorus, the sound seemingly snapping Francis from the spell.

“Get back to your ship, James,” he said tersely.

\- - -

Bloody awful Fitzjames. Was this how he was with all of his paramours? Shouldn’t surprise Francis, James acting as though he was some conquest or maiden needing wooing.

Not that Francis would mind- no. No. _No._ They had much more pressing concerns. Namely, getting out of there, and now Fitzjames would be taking up valuable space in Francis’ thoughts. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead as though he could evict James by force.

“Francis.” James’ voice was low.

“No.”

“Please, Francis.”

“Get back to Erebus, before I order you.”

Behind him, he could hear James moving about to redress in his slops. He turned, James nearly ready to leave, his hat still on the table. Francis’ hands found it, his actions a continued betrayal as he found himself stepping forward towards James, holding it out.

A curt nod, James looking up, their fingers brushing as James took it, James’ lips parted in that sad grimace he made, one he was making more and more these days, his eyes soft and tragic.

“Francis,” James implored.

“I-”

In a breath, James had seized his shirtfront, bent in, and kissed him, hard and rough and artlessly, and Francis, god damn it, he was kissing James back, an electric feeling tingling down his limbs, his fingers feeling as though they were warming back up painfully from being out in the elements too long. His hands fumbled on James’ clothes, James breaking away and pressing his forehead to Francis’.

“Francis, Francis, Francis,” James murmured, each syllable a thrum against Francis’ heart.

“This is not the time, and you know that.”

“We could make time, you know that, but if you insist.” James laughed dryly. “Please, though, Francis. I have you. I have you, Captain.” He bent in to kiss Francis one last time before donning his hat, touching the brim, and ducking his head at Francis before turning to go. A need for James and his pretty mouth to be kissing Francis again seemed to overwhelm him.

What the hell was he playing at? There was no room for errant emotions, no spare time beyond planning their route out. Survival, if they could keep it. Now James was spouting off all sorts of ideas, as though someone like him would spare more than a passing fancy for Francis. He felt the ache in his chest deepen.

_Congratulations, Crozier. You’ve somehow made this situation even worse._ Francis found an unopened bottle and began to drink.

\- - -

He thought he’d been clear about his intentions. He’d kissed Francis, that crochety ancient souse, right on the lips. What, did Francis want a sonnet? Perhaps for James to stand on the ice beneath his cabin. Sing a little song. Toss rocks upwards until Francis opened the window. He had half a mind to try it, warned off of such risky behavior by Dundy’s loss of toes.

Regardless, Francis did not come to Erebus.

So it was left to James to look over the maps, have a glass of something strong and stare out the window, towards Terror. When his mind wasn’t on Francis and that sly smile of his, it was contemplating if they got out.

No. When they escaped this frozen forgotten world, they, could he even imagine a version of events where he and Francis-

Certainly not, especially not if Francis couldn’t even deign to leave Terror. Worse, he was now stealing James’ liquor. Could he not even give him a scrap of regard? Consider, for a moment what had occurred between them?

The answer was clear. James was in love and Francis was not.

How it burned! How it tore at his insides! Heartache was not a new phenomenon. James wasn’t some maiden thrown over by her swain. The indignity of it being Francis Crozier, though. The utter, utter indignity.

Instead, James busied himself, which, with the added crew, meant there was much work to be done. The Lady Silence was causing unnecessary strife belowdecks, the men leaving her little offerings like Christmas presents. James had said some rather…crude remarks about the woman and her people, words he regretted now. But her presence there, it was near as bad as that damned pressure ridge. Better to have her on Terror, empty as it was, than here, and frankly, Francis deserved her. James did regret that Goodsir would likely go with her, the two almost inseparable. He sighed. Goodsir had been a suitable buffer for Dr. Stanley. James had yet to meet anyone who was as sour as Dr. Stanley, with the exception of miserable Francis.

If he was going to steal James’ alcohol, he could take the bad luck charm of Lady Silence as well.

He rubbed at his brow, tiredness leaching into his very bones. When the sadness threatened to engulf James, the anger would overtake him, sweeping down like a howling wind the moment it felt like he was slipping under, both fighting for dominance and driving him to distraction. He thought he was doing an admirable job hiding it. He was not. And perhaps the worst part was he had no confessor.

Did Francis ever think of him? Yes, clearly, but only as a source of something he needed. Bastard. Here they were, Francis in charge, and he was squandering his command in the bottom of a bottle, the realization that this disgrace of a man was whom James’ affections were attached to making him feel deeply ashamed. Naturally, this turned to humiliation about his own birth, the end of the spiral of embarrassment leaving James feel as though he’d been fully wrung-out and left empty.

The tipping point had come and gone. He needed answers, even if they weren’t the ones he wanted. James dressed and headed out onto the ice. Towards Terror.

Towards Francis.

\- - -

There was so much to be done.

Francis did none of it. He drank. He reminisced with Blanky. He drank more. He considered the preparation for the march out. He drank still more.

And he thought of James.

James, who had left and never come back. James, flashy, gilded James, who had tried to have his amusement with Francis. He wasn’t an idiot. Francis was old. Old, and Irish. Every time he looked in the mirror, all he saw was his bloodshot eyes, the flush of the bottle across his cheeks, that gap between his teeth that he could whistle through. He didn’t dare contemplate how he smelled, sweating out what he drank. If James had ever found any part of him pleasing, he surely wouldn’t now.

So Francis drank. And thought of James kissing him. And drank. And thought of James’ hands on him. And drank.

And thought of James, hooking his thumbs under his braces and slinging them off his shoulders. Unbuttoning his shirt, his hair in his eyes. Slipping out of those boots, his ridiculously long legs emerging, hands sliding his socks down. Catching his lip in his teeth and glancing up. His mouth on Francis.

James reading particularly flowery poetry while they found shade under a tree, sheltered from the summer sun. Helping James out of a carriage. A whisper in his ear at some soiree, a snippet of stray gossip as James’ gloved finger brushed along Francis’ low back, a murmured bit of praise as their bodies-

Thus Francis drank and drank and drank. How irrational he had been, even thinking that someone such as James would ever extend his favor to someone as plain and low as Francis, how completely, fully undeserving Francis would be of such attentions.

It was obvious. James had used him, and badly. Francis’ anger, when it tired of dining on his own self-worth, thrashed wildly towards his vain, self-important second.

If James wanted to be in charge, if he wanted to command the expedition, so be it. Here, James, your first lesson. And your second and third and fourth. You’re up for the task, aren’t you James? Ruled an entire island, you did! Well, weren’t their ships a bit like two islands? James would be fine. He’d even been kind enough to send Francis a little gift. Goodsir and the girl.

So in turn, Francis directed Little to go get some of James’ private store. What was James going to do? Confront him? Deep down, Francis hoped he would. Somewhere, some divine entity opened one sleepy eye, fixing it on Francis, and hearing this sloppy, drunken wish, granted it at the most inopportune time.

Francis, in a fit of inspiration, hauled the Lady Silence into his cabin. It was the first time they’d gotten any real answers. A spirit that dresses as an animal, she said, and then, the words that struck Francis like a blow to the kidneys.

“Why do you want to die?”

He was knocked unsteady, but before he could find his feet again, there was bloody James. So kind of him to grace them with his presence, but then he’d opened his mouth, his face an ugly mask of rage, calling him Francis, as though they were friends, or friendly, or-

Naturally, Francis punched him.

It was no less than that foppish bastard deserved. He had no right to be so angry with Francis, and no right to be so familiar. But the look on James’ face after Francis had hit him. Francis wouldn’t be able to recall it exactly when he looked back on that fight later, much of the previous weeks a headachey haze. Fleeting vignettes, half-remembered impressions. Feelings of intense sadness, roiling anger, abandonment, worthlessness, jealousy, all of it wrapped up around a certain lanky, brunette officer.

Even if he had remembered, Francis would have been far too embarrassed to admit it, but Lady Silence’s hurled accusation, and James’ face, that moment of desperate heartbreak after Francis’ blow. One without the other wouldn’t have done it, but James’ eyes, the way they burned into him. That was the moment he knew what needed doing.

For the crew, for James, they deserved someone who would earn their trust. Francis couldn’t lead them to the land of the living if he didn’t think he deserved to be there too. He’d cost Blanky the leg, and he would cost everyone their lives if he didn’t stop.

And so Francis Crozier took one last drink and withdrew to his cabin, preparing for his punishment, no less than he deserved.


	4. Chapter 4

The costumes lay discarded around him, a mockery of what life would be like away from the Arctic. James eyed them dubiously, frowning at each one. He was a little drunk. Just a little. A small indulgence, a slapdash patch job on his mental state, which was at turns angry and worried and fearful.

“What else do you require? Respect? Well, earn it,” he’d thrown at Francis, his voice breaking. “Or are you determined to be the worst kind of first as well?”

“Earn it” echoed in his head as his fingers toyed absently at the hem of the faded dress. “Earn it.”

_Earn me,_ he’d meant. It was all he’d been able to think about on that walk to Terror, so overcome with hurt that he truly wouldn’t have minded if the creature had carried him off. So hopeless for Francis’ approval, although once James had seen the state Francis was in, that need and hurt curdled to rage. He bet Francis hadn’t even left his cabin, sitting there, feeling sorry for himself while the world froze and crumbled around him.

_Earn it, Francis. Earn me, because right now you’ve earned nothing, failing upwards only for the grace of Sir John’s death._ It was cruel, he knew. James took another swig from the bottle, now tasked with being Francis’ secret-keeper as well.

So what else was there to do but throw a party, James falling into old habits. The James from a thousand years ago, the one who wanted to walk across Asia, that James was always ready for a bit of dress-up, fripperies and music and dancing and drink, easy to hide beneath whatever version the world wanted to see of James. One last hurrah before marching out, marching home. God bless it, Francis had better be sober by then. James had no wish to carry him back in the state he was in.

He’d visited once. James wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but it was worse than he imagined, enough to distract him from that look Blanky had given him when he’d boarded Terror, one of lingering but not entirely unhappy surprise.

“He’ll not likely remember you were here, sir,” Jopson said. “But if he does speak, he’ll say things, hm, as they are. All of his pretense, such as it was before, it’s gone. Mostly. He may say something hurtful. He won’t remember, and I advise you to do the same.” Jopson had waited for James to nod his assent before allowing him in.

Francis had been fully washed, but he was still in a wretched state, his hair plastered to his head, his eyes rheumy. He was trembling as though he had a chill, but he kept throwing the blankets back as though he was too hot.

“Captain Crozier,” James said, taking a seat, worrying the brim of his hat with his fingers. Francis blinked slowly as though his eyes refused to focus.

“James,” he rasped. “Is it you? Or has Jopson let his hair go long?”

“No, it is indeed me.” James smiled at hearing Francis say his name. He’d related news of Erebus. Francis might forget but he was still due an update, Francis nodding absently, his eyes still fuzzy, movements erratic.

“I hope your illness passes quickly,” James said, standing. Francis was utterly pitiable.

“Wait.” A hand fumbled out, reaching for James and catching the hem of his jacket.

“Yes, Captain?”

Francis blinked again, his eyes traveling up to meet James.

“Francis. Call me Francis. We do not need to stand on ceremony. Must we? I don’t wish to, James.”

James gave a hollow laugh. “Someday I will relate to you our last meeting, every detail, and all of our other meetings.”

Francis coughed and looked away.

“But no,” James continued, “I do not believe we need formalities. I do not wish it either.”

“Good. I, I’ve missed you.”

James’ heart, battered and bruised, took another blow.

“Well, you’ll have to miss me more. Your penitence will last a bit longer. And when you’re better, you’ll have enough that you’ll get sick of me entirely.” He took Francis’ hand in his, squeezing it once. “I depart for Erebus. If I stay longer, your nursemaid is likely to toss me out on my ear.”

Francis laughed. “Might muss up your hair.”

James smiled. “Be well, Captain.”

Francis had gone to protest, but had been overtaken by a coughing fit, Jopson rushing in.

Who would Francis be not cloaked in his need for liquor? James shivered, standing unsteadily, holding the dress up over his form, grinning slightly madly at his reflection. It frightened him. All of it did. His scalp was oozing, a tooth feeling loose in the back of his skull. Even the idea of a fête seemed wrong, but he was too far invested. The price, as Blanky had said, it would need to be paid.

Britannia. Yes. How apt. James finished the bottle, discarding it and retreating to his cabin to dress.

\- - -

James smelled of burnt misery, Francis thought as the man wept into his coat collar.

“James,” he murmured.

“D-don’t.” He drew in a shuddering breath, shaking so hard that Francis thought he might fly to pieces. “Those men-”

“It’s all right.” It wasn’t, but the time for reflection was not now.

James let go, slumping back into his chair. He was still wearing the costume, Francis not entirely sure what he was supposed to be, the toga torn and sooty. There had been a helm, too, at some point, he’d remembered that from the tent, James hoisted up like a conquering general. Caesar crossing the Rubicon, perhaps. The less said about Carnival the better, Francis recalling James’ expression at seeing him, all shock and embarrassment. But James had done as he was told, gathering them men. They’d shared the news. And then.

Lady Silence, bloody and tongueless. Dr. Stanley, the fire, the deaths, so many. Francis sat down as well, knees nearly touching. Even though he’d just been holding James, he felt the distance widen and freeze over, James rubbing at his eye with his knuckle.

“What…what needs doing?” James said, clearing his throat.

“I’ve given a list of tasks to Little and Collins, but for you, I need you in fighting shape. The walk is long. It will get worse before it gets better.”

“I’ll do what I’ve always done with unpleasantness,” James said bitingly. “Tamp it down.” He leaned back, not meeting Francis’ gaze. “Is there…anything else?”

Francis sighed. He hoped they could speak plainly of things. He had only pieces of memory from the past few months, but before, when they’d first been encased in the ice, he remembered that clearly. He remembered James’ visit. He remembered kissing him. A vague impression of a fight and James, or someone very like him visiting during his confinement, although that was maybe wishful thinking. The way James had looked up at him during the speech. He thought there was something there. Perhaps he was wrong.

“Did you visit me while I was ill?”

James nodded slightly, glancing up. “I wished to see your progress.”

“Was that all?”

There was no response, James’ brows furrowing.

This was it. The march was going to take weeks, hard endless drudgery and misery, but if he said nothing now, Francis didn’t think he could burden James later.

“I do not near know who I am, James. It’s been so long since I’ve had to do a full accounting of myself.” He took in a deep breath, examining his hands. “Not entirely sure if I care for this version of me, but regardless, I have a significant amount of apologizing to do, something I must face head-on.

“These men need honesty and I can’t lead them if I’m not honest with myself. And with you. About you, to you.”

Across from him, James was all tensed muscle, as though Francis was about to tell an embarrassing story about him. Francis held up a hand in an attempt to placate those fears.

“I was awful to most everyone around me. I was awful to you. Suppose it was part jealousy,” at this, James’ eyes widened, “but also…”

Francis reached across the divide, feeling as though he was leaning far too close to the edge, mentally digging his heels in for purchase, his fingers brushing James’, taking his hand.

“Must I say the words?” he said softly, seeing James’ shoulders drop. “Must I? Will you make me say how I missed you? The hours? The days?”

James took both his hands, standing and bending down towards Francis, his face unreadable. Damn him and his ability to mask everything. Someday he’d find out how James was so good at it, and why.

“I’ve missed you, Francis. But…that was a long time ago. We are very far from home. And there is work to be done.” He let go, walking out the door and calling for Bridgens.

Were this Francis of a month ago, even a week ago, he would have found a bottle of anything, even gin, and crawled inside, his heart aching acutely. But James was right. There was work needing doing, and in time, his spirits would mend. Someday, in a not-too-distant future, Francis chanced a thought, they would be able to share a laugh and a knowing glance over the table at a party in London when someone asked how they’d fared during the long years in close proximity.

He was at his desk, the sun going down, preparing to write his last log. No one would find it, at least while he was alive, he’d wager, but he wanted those words to sing, as Franklin had put it. Let the angels who read them know the heartache such departure would rend.

A knock at the door startled him. He’d made a small mess of ink, lost in thought. Jopson, most likely, he thought as he said something aloud to welcome them in, bending back over the desk.

“Jopson, I-”

Francis looked up. It wasn’t Jopson, but rather James, standing there in his slops, his hair in disarray. His eyes were lost, hungry, his mouth quirked to the side. Francis knew that tic for what it was now, James tending to bite the inside of his mouth when trying to find what to say, the proper thing, if not the correct thing.

Francis sat there, putting the quill down so at least there would be no further inky mess and turned slightly in his chair.

“It was a long time ago,” James said, his eyes unfocused and his voice lost and thready as though he’d been yelling, his whole being weighed down and tarnished. “And not a day goes by that I do not think of it. Of you.”

Francis stood, his head swimming, taking the four steps to stand in front of his second. James looked down, his hair falling into his eyes. That blasted hair. If only it wasn’t so beautiful, Francis might threaten to cut it off for the insult of concealing James.

“Francis, I-”

For the second time that day, James was in his arms, crumpling like a discarded toy doll. Francis dared to look up, James’ eyes damp and reddened and lovely. Even in this light, he could see they weren’t just brown, but almost a toffee color, ringed with darker flecks.

“I have you, James,” he said. “I have you.”

\- - -

“You didn’t come to Erebus,” James said, searching Francis’ face. How had he ever disparaged that face? All the cruel things he had thought, the craggy features, no longer flushed and angry, the piercing eyes, clear and worried, even that awful smirking brow. James had the urge to kiss it and feel it arch under his lips. Must be the scurvy.

“You didn’t come to Terror,” Francis said back. “Your legs work as well as mine.”

“Oh you are insufferable, Francis, I’ll have you know I was very b-”

A hand was behind his head, guiding him down, down to Francis’ welcome, warm rough lips, the argument dying on James’ tongue. Last time he’d kissed Francis, he’d been surprised by James, kissing him back with an unfocused fire.

This time it was hesitant, ending nearly as quickly as it had started.

What now? James had such ideas, but he couldn’t, not here with Francis on this boat that had them near bracing their legs against the tilt of the floor. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up right on his ass.

“James,” Francis murmured, drawing it out in his brogue. Broad hands moved up his back, warm even through the layers. 

“The names,” James stuttered out. “The men. I-I have the list in my jacket-but.” He ducked his head again.

“No, James, I’ll not let you punish yourself any longer. There’s not much time but…would you wish to spend one last night aboard Terror?”

James’ head was up. Would he? Of course he would, but Christ, he was so tired. His head hurt, his heart hurt, and he wasn’t sure he’d be good for much of anything. Francis, in his new state, goddamn him, seemed to sense it.

“We don’t,” he paused. “We, James, I don’t mean, I could use the company. That’s all, unless. Well.” He laughed. “I’m rather bad at this, aren’t I?”

James laughed as well. It was the first time he’d laughed in ages.

“I’ve had much worse proposals, but this is certainly one of the poorer ones. Francis, are you blushing?” he teased, letting go of Francis so he could get out of his slops.

“No.” Francis scowled, gesturing to the chairs.

“Ah, there he is, glad you didn’t leave that shade of Captain Crozier behind.”

The evening passed quickly, James telling Francis more about his time in China, Francis only baiting him two or three times. Francis in turn related not one, but both of Sophia’s rejections, and Sir John’s cutting remarks that he’d not intended to be overheard. James shifted in his seat guiltily, recalling all that Franklin had related to him.

“He once said I was distant and hard to love,” Francis said, checking his pocket watch.

“You were,” James replied, standing. This godforsaken expedition had so many breaking points, and they often seemed to end in disaster for James. What was one more? Francis’ face had pinched, his lip starting to curl as though he was about to lob an insult from habit.

“But not anymore.” James reached for him. “Don’t make me speak the words.”

Francis took his hand, leading James to the berth, his touch tentative and slow as they undressed, not fully, just enough, hesitantly.

“Are you sure James?”

James carefully wedged himself into that tilted bunk, pulling Francis onto him.

“Please, Francis. I don’t know how much of a fight I’ve got in me, but please put your hands on me. Please. Please.”

His voice seemed to awaken something in Francis, his hands surer as he unbuttoned James’ vest and shirt, fingers tracing down from collarbone to nipple to hip, Francis murmuring his compliments. The air grew warm as James felt himself finally untense from his wracking, painful grief and fear and jealousy and need, Francis’ body heavy on him. Every inch of skin burned, Francis kissing him to muffle his sighs and groans.

And what a kiss it was! James was at turns pliant and stubborn, his lips guiding Francis on, a moan escaping as Francis nipped at his lower lip. Some retort died on his lips and in his mind as their lips fit together again, James taking advantage of Francis as he shifted on top of him to advance his tongue, Francis meeting it with his own. 

Francis, emerging from his clothing, was a wonder, his body solid, his heft pinning James down.

“When we get out of here,” Francis huffed, grumbling as they rearranged themselves so they were facing each other, James nearly accidentally elbowing Francis in the face, a hand reaching into Francis’ open trousers, Francis groaning as though he were broken timber, “I will make you speak the words. Wring them out of you if I must.” Francis’ own fingers were mapping James’ length.

“You won’t need to.” James arched into him, spending, far too fast, but could it be helped that Francis had that effect on him, or that he was so bone-tired, so taxed that at the slightest touch he would finish? “I’ll give them gladly. When we’re home. S-sorry, old man.”

Francis shook his head, a witty retort left unsaid as James tugged him off, rewarded as Francis’ mouth fell open, lip arched up to reveal the gap in his teeth. “More,” he begged, “more, more James, more-” Francis bit back another groan as he spurted into James’ hand.

A handkerchief was produced. Trousers rearranged. Somehow Francis, though larger, ended up tucked into James’ arms.

“How far?” James asked quietly. He wasn’t sure if Francis had fallen asleep.

Francis shrugged. “Eight hundred miles. But the search party will be returning.”

“Are you positive?”

Francis rolled over, carefully, facing James. “No. But if we must walk all eight hundred, then that is what we will do. Do you not think we can walk all that way?”

“Who will we be when we get there? What will we be? Skin and bone, leaving a trail of teeth. Will we remember every man we leave behind? Because we’ll lose more, won’t we? What if I-”

“James.” Francis kissed his cheek, a thumb brushing a tear from his eye. Francis, kind and gentle. What a world. It startled him enough to stop crying. “You will find that men are capable of a great deal when the choice is survival or not. I intend to get every last man home.” He paused. “And you, James. I do not wish to drip daydreams and fantasies in your ears. But know that I intend in particular to get you back to England. To your family. To a phalanx of admirers. Every soiree and cotillion and night at the opera that you can imagine. Won’t you love it?”

James could imagine nothing he’d like less. But he smiled weakly. If he got home, he could refuse every last one of them. He could imagine a future, deeply improbable, Francis ensconced in a wingback chair, peering at him over the top of a book. A large bed, far too big, covers and pillows. Warmth, always, and no more seas of ice or barren wastelands hiding monsters. 

Perhaps home was within reach. He could learn to live on hope again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: tooth loss

James stopped smiling almost entirely after they left the ships. Even when Francis reached over a hand, skirting the top of James’, all he’d yield was a wan half-smile. Still, it was like a sunrise to Francis, that first light over the top of the ice, even if the smile never reached James’ eyes.

Every evening, Francis would find himself in James’ tent. Their tent, after so many days. Blanky raised an eyebrow (both actually), but that was the extent of it.

“Have I told you about Tad?”

“Tad…is that a sailor?” James was propped up in bed, attempting to wrangle his hair, picking at a snarl. 

“No. He was a reindeer.”

James glanced up from his task, his eyebrows raised. By the end of the story, he was laughing, not a chuckle or a polite pantomime, but rather a whole body laugh, his mouth wide, eyes nearly shut. A tear trickled down his face.

“You…you…” he was wiping the tears from his cheek. “You had them on your boats?”

Francis grinned. “Explorers may chase hope undaunted but that doesn’t guarantee that we are always thinking rationally.”

James laughed again. “Well, you certainly think rationally, Francis. The only rational one amongst us.” He rubbed at his eye, yawning like a child.

“Please be sure you’ll tell that to whatever commission draws me up for court-marshalling, won’t you?”

James continued to do poorly. Any mention of home and he would sit back and chew at the inside of his mouth. He’d lost a tooth, spitting something out as they walked, something that clattered along the shale, skittering away. Francis turned to look.

“No matter,” James said quietly.

It was on another of their walks that James had, haltingly, told Francis of his parentage. Francis hadn’t been able to offer much comfort then, but that night, James had wept and shivered, pawing at his eyes as thought he could push the tears back in, finally putting his head in his hands.

“Budge up, then,” Francis said, sitting on the cot next to him. “Shall I tell you how you looked at Carnival?”

“No,” James snuffled, not moving until Francis tentatively put a hand on his shoulder. “Before the fire I looked like a fool and after I was an absolute eyesore,” he said, looking up.

Francis chuckled.

“You looked…almost unreal. I must admit I was still weak, you know, from my convalescence, but I walked in and there was some minor godling up on the shoulders of the men, hoisted as though being carried to his temple.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” James leaned into him, his breathing still hitching in his chest.

“Am I? You were dressed as…” Francis feigned ignorance.

“Britannia.” 

“Fitting.” Francis leaned back to lie down, James following, his head on Francis’ chest. Simple companionship was all.

“Yes, how very,” James said dryly.

“Regardless. James, you were…” Francis felt another sob roiling in James as the wind rattled the tent.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly. “You are beautiful.”

“Am not. A chunk of hair fell out this morning. And I lost another back tooth. At this rate I’ll be gumming what’s left of the tins if we…” James curled his fingers into Francis’ shirt.

“I wanted desperately to be seen,” he said into Francis’ chest, his breath warm, his voice nothing but the darkest part of him, laid bare. His other arm wrapped around Francis’ midsection. “By everyone. Anyone.” He lifted his head, his eyes downcast. “Not you alone and yet,” he laughed, looking up finally. “To be seen by you was what I needed most fiercely. How was I to know?”

James shrugged, or gave the approximation of one. All of James’ gestures now were a shadow, as though he was half-heartedly playacting, a line of worry settling in Francis’ brow.

Francis had let James in. Hadn’t intended it. Hadn’t been aware of it. No one was allowed to be this far within his sentiments, not even Sophia. He’d promised her he’d use as many drawers as she wished, that he would make her happy, knowing full-well in the deepest part of his mind, the part he tried most ardently to ignore, that he would not have. Yet here was James, breaking down the door, opening up the windows, tutting a bit at the state of disrepair of Francis’ heart, and unpacking his bags. 

And James…vain, exasperating, witty man. Francis felt he understood now, understood him entirely. Was Francis too banging about within James? He’d expected to find nothing but frilly flippant nonsense all the way down, but James was nothing like that, once the gold leaf had flaked off.

“We’ll get you home, James, I swear to you.” They would, otherwise this entire endeavor meant nothing.

The only sound was the wind whistling through the canvas, and James, his entire form on Francis, gentle tears running down his face as Francis pulled him in close.

It was the most vivid color, Francis thought a few days later, that he had seen in ages since the harsh bright orange and yellow of the fire at Carnival, and it was now in James’ eye. It would be beautiful in any other place and time. Here, it was hideous and beautiful. Mesmerizing. What it meant, though. The blood red eye, the gunshot wound, the line along the gums, the pitting along his lips and scalp. James was becoming his old self’s worst nightmare, a bit of a fright, in Francis’ estimation. Francis didn’t care.

James gave the barest of smiles, always accompanied by a cough. “They’re all coming loose,” he mumbled one night. Francis held him close, as though he could fight off death, his body a barrier between this world and the next, an anchor for James to fix himself to rather than drift away. Francis was finally feeling his own strength ebb slightly, so there was not much use or energy for more than a bit of fumbling around in the evening.

Francis relished every fragment of it. If he lost James…he would not think of it. But this would carry him home, where he could proclaim to every newspaper and bookseller and anyone who would listen of the heroism of James Fitzjames.

That would not happen, though.

He would not lose James. He would not.

\- - -

Every day brough a novel facet of horror. Sometimes it was a new wound, or a different loose tooth. Often it was simply an intensifier. More hair coming out by the roots. Vision blurrier than the day before. Every morning, he found that he did not want to open his eyes. If they stayed closed, he could pretend he was still dreaming.

The dreams. Food, fresh and aromatic. Meat. Fruit. Wine. A bed with a blanket, a real bed, not a bunk or a cot. A sea of blankets.

Sometimes the dreams were less literal. Franklin as a large dog, resting his head on James’ knee. Hickey, long-dead, transformed into a rat. The Tuunbaq, Francis had finally told him the name, shrunk down to the size of a housecat, its shoulder still a smoking ruin from the rocket.

And Francis. Francis stalked James’ dreams. Even the ones where he wasn’t visible, he was always a nearby presence, calming, reassuring. Not the attributes James would have ever labeled Francis when they set out.

James squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will sleep to claim him, pinpoints of pain screaming for attention. His hip, his low back, his arm, his mouth. His mouth and his teeth. All of them felt unmoored. James didn’t want to smile at Francis, afraid that they would clack against each other like loose fence slats and fall out one by one.

Blessed Francis. He was always there when James awoke.

“Good morning, James,” he said lightly, his eyes betraying his worry. “How do you feel?”

“Oh, peachy. Never better. Think I’ll take a stroll along the promenade later. Take in the sun. You can hold my parasol.” He coughed, the pain dull and deep in his chest.

Francis sat on the cot and reached forward to brush James’ hair back. It was matted and snarled, but James leaned into it involuntarily, sighing.

“I’m sorry Francis.” His voice felt like it was wind whistling out of him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His eyelids fell shut. He forced them open. Forcing open his eyes, such small muscles, such mammoth effort.

“Don’t exhaust yourself.”

“No, no. Please. I must say it. I spent months underestimating you. I…I heard what Sir John said to you. The day you argued. Christ, Francis, I acted so shamefully, I wasted so much time angry at you, furious, and for what? For nothing. Here is where I will leave you. And I will leave this world at least with your forgiveness.”

James could feel tears welling up, or the simulacrum of them, the backs of his eyes aching. Francis clasped his hands, those frail bones in parchment skin.

“I’m half the man you are,” James whispered, “but I thought myself twice.”

Francis’ face scrunched as though James had dealt him a blow, a tear running down his face.

“James,” he said, his voice breaking, “no apologies. Not here. We are both very different men. This man now.” His lips brushed James’ knuckles, grit on rice paper. “I daresay I am very lucky indeed to know him.”

His breath leaked out of him like a hole in a balloon. Everything hurt. He was so tired. His mouth was raw and coppery and he dared not explore more with his tongue, lest any new looseness be discovered. James huffed out a laugh, which sounded more like a cough, and smiled. He thought it was a smile. Francis was smiling, so James must have succeeded.

James hadn’t seen a mirror in…he couldn’t remember. His memories were being snatched away, but he did recall asking Francis to hide the looking glass.

“I know I must be a horror to look upon, but please stay, won’t you? I do not believe you will need to be here much longer-”

“Don’t, please do not say such things.”

James tried to speak again, dissolving into another cough. He couldn’t swallow very well, spit pooling down his throat. Instead of arguing, James found himself folded into strong, sure arms. There had been much more of him than Francis at one point, but now he was all knees and elbows and bony shoulders, collapsing like a tent into Francis.

“You once said you’d wring the words from me,” he mumbled into Francis.

“When we are home.”

“Home is wherever you are, Francis,” he replied, feeling a hand in his hair. James wanted to jerk away. Francis should not touch such grime, but he hadn’t the strength, Francis lying down, holding him close. The pain lessened, only slightly, but still, a small blessing.

This was it, he was sure. He had made his peace with Francis. In the unending war between exhaustion and pain, pain ceded a victory and James felt himself slip under. What would he dream of this time? Taking tea while seated across from a pretty young lady? Another dead crewman returned as an animal? Francis in furs?

Francis again, blessedly. It was to be a nice dream, then. His face was wild, eyes feverishly bright, his hair sticking up in the back like when he first arose and hadn’t brushed it back down yet. There was noise outside. Was he still in the tent? Cruel of a dream to keep him in this realm and not something more fantastical. A blanket was on him. Goodsir was in the tent, too, and someone in a coat like theirs, only blue, a proper blue, not the faded and salt-rimed color theirs were. James wished valiantly for the dream of Sir John as a dog. That would at least be entertaining. His mind drifted.

_James._

It was as though yelled across a valley, echoing in the crevasses of his mind.

_James._

He rolled over, carefully, his elbows burning. Who ever heard of elbows hurting so? Someone was shaking him. Didn’t they know how rude it was to interrupt him while he was trying to expire?

“Let me die in peace,” he muttered, turning away.

“James you bloody idiot.” It _was_ Francis. _Manners,_ James thought. 

“Hullo,” he slurred. “Very nice dream I’m having, glad to see you too.”

“James. It’s no dream. We are found. We are found.”


	6. Chapter 6

There were two ships on the return, but not nearly enough men to fill them both, so there was little made when Francis insisted on being on the same ship as James. He was so very ill, wounds oozing blood, probably a good quarter of his hair falling out. He lost another tooth, a canine. Francis knew James would be upset with losing one up front. But first he needed to live long enough.

James was in and out of the present, mumbling the strangest things about dogs and rats, until he woke up, finally, fully.

“Damn it.” Francis heard muttering, looking up from his book. James, still frighteningly thin, was struggling to sit up. His hand was in his mouth. “And I liked that tooth a lot. I’ll have to chew meat on the other side. At least the rest seem solid.” He smiled, briefly, before pulling his lip back down to cover the gap, sliding a finger around his gums. James looked up, his eyes shining with fear, dark in the dim cabin light.

“Will the lost tooth interfere with your ability to tell a story?” Francis asked lightly.

“I don’t believe so.”

“No great tragedy, then.”

James laughed. “Have you been here the entire time?”

Francis dipped his chin in assent.

“Oh.” He sat up fully, swinging one leg over the bed. “Oh. Hm. No…perhaps not ready for that.” James sank back on the bed.

“Will you…” he looked back down.

Francis stood. “Yes. Let me get you dinner. I’ll stay here as long as you’d like.”

“I would like that very much.”

James protested, Francis was sure he did it as a cursory matter, when Francis cut his hair. First he let Francis wash it, then patiently unpick it with a wide-tooth comb.

“Can’t you leave it?” he asked.

“Do you want me to? It’s growing back in, can you feel that?” Francis took one of James’ hands, putting it on his scalp so his fingers could brush where the hair, soft and nearly white, was sprouting. “You’ll look a little lopsided if I don’t.”

James huffed out a reply, handing Francis the scissors. “If you ruin me, I’ll push you overboard.”

“Promises, promises.” He felt James tense at every snip, slowly relaxing as Francis combed through the sections with his fingers. The best he could do was to sort of even out the whole thing, still much shorter than James, or he would prefer.

Soon James was well enough to walk about, Francis accompanying him on deck, helping him navigate the ladder and stairs. Francis moved to the cabin across the hall, unhappily, but knowing that James would probably desire more privacy, not needing assistance with dressing or grooming. He still didn’t smile much, but his face filled out again. The sores around his lips healed, his hair growing back in, Francis smiling to see when it started to form that gentle wave.

Francis found himself knocking on James’ door one evening with no answer. Should he look for James? With a start, he realized how much of his heart was bound up with James. Icewater ran down his spine. He was so sure of James’ affections several months ago, home, perhaps together, as a small hope, flickering in the shelter of their makeshift camps. A week ago. Even a day ago.

Now, though, England awaited. 

“Francis?” Blanky was stumping down the passageway. “You look like you’ve just seen the Tuunbaq.”

“No, no. I was looking for-”

“James. Naturally.”

Francis felt his ears heat up, Blanky cackling at his reaction. “I don’t catch your meaning.”

“Ahh, never pegged you as an idiot. Other than about Ms. Cracroft. You were fairly idiotic about her. So I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you’re being an idiot about Fitzjames.”

Francis rounded on him, ready to tear into Blanky, catching his expression. He was smiling and shaking his head. But of course Blanky would have figured things out.

“He’s topside,” Blanky said lightly. “Think he needed some time to think. Probably could use a familiar face.” He leaned in. “Tell him.”

“I-I still-”

“What? I’m not blind, Francis. Go on. You two were near inseparable since leaving Terror. What you do is your own business, but I’d hate to see you lose something wonderful just because you’re too scared to say something.”

Francis was speechless. Blanky clapped him on the back before walking past.

Fumbling for his coat and hat, Francis stumbled up the steps.

The air caught him off-guard. Brisk. Refreshing. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had just a brisk chilly wind, and not one that threatened to open up his skin if given the chance. The sky was mostly clear and dark, clouds scudding along in the breeze. Down towards the bow, a figure was hunched against the railing.

Francis strode forward, his legs braver than his mind. The deck creaked, alerting James to his presence.

“Hullo, Francis,” James said, looking over his shoulder. Smiling. Not grinning, but smiling. 

Francis leaned on the rail next to him, not touching him. Good God, he’d held this man in his arms. He’d had his hands down his trousers, kissed him, touched him, felt him fly apart under his grasp. All in the land of ice and death. Not here.

\- - -

He’d been leaning against the railing on his elbows, standing up so he could grip it with both hands. No need for gloves, but James was still a little on the wobbly side.

“You know, I’d come to terms with it,” he said conversationally, looking out at the water. “The dying, I mean. Not the way I’d pictured it, but I learned long ago that to die for Queen and country often meant leaving a bit of a mess for whoever finds you.” James laughed. “I got the one thing I believe I needed. Your forgiveness.”

Francis leaned on the railing, mirroring James, both hands out front.

“I hadn’t. James, it would have left an awful hole.”

“I’m sure you would have found someone to fill it. Miss Cracroft. Some other pretty young lady to give you a passel of ginger children, clinging to your calves. You still could. When we…when you get home.”

Francis was quiet, clearing his throat several times. His left hand inched along the railing until their little fingers brushed, James steadfastly trying to ignore what his heart was screaming at him to do. On the deck of the ship? How positively vulgar. His knees ached in sympathetic protest.

“We’ll be court-marshalled,” James continued, “but most likely they’ll let us off with a very stern talking-to. Something about disregard for the property of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. You might be knighted, you know. And I’ll…” he stopped. It was the first time he had considered what would happen when they returned. Oh, he had many friends who would welcome him into their homes, for the time being.

“Do you think you’d like to return to sea?” Francis’ voice was rough.

“No.” That he was sure of.

Francis’ hand, large and callused, slipped over his, James’ heart beating a staccato against his ribs. He breathed in. Out. In again, turning his hand upright under Francis’, the fingers lacing together.

“Are you certain this wasn’t just the expedition? You know how things are when men are far from home for too long.” James kept his voice even, continuing to fix his eye on the horizon, shrouded in a low cloud bank.

“I thought so too. But you’ve been all snarled up in my head, without my permission. As it turns out, you’re a most difficult man to disentangle myself from, even if I wanted to.” Francis paused, shifting a bit from one foot to the other. “Can you please look at me, James?”

James let go of Francis’ hand, turning and stumbling a bit. One hand was under his elbow before he could think to ask for aid.

“I’m very much bound up in you,” Francis mumbled, his eyes bright. “It would have torn me to shreds to lose you. Please don’t say I’m to lose you again.”

He felt himself sway a bit, reaching out for Francis for balance. Francis’ brow arched.

“You’re not the sighing, fainting, delicate flower, James, do stop listing as though your stays are too tight.”

James smiled, aware that Francis could see, would see the gap. Francis, he realized, was the only one he’d smiled at since the rescue, the only one he trusted to not draw back at his bald patches or troubling thinness or that blasted missing tooth.

“So certain that you are not the one who makes me lose my equilibrium? Who will catch me when I fall? Most assuredly you, wouldn’t you, Francis?”

“Don’t be so sure,” he groused.

James swayed a bit again, Francis instinctively reaching out to grasp him, James tipping forward, their hat brims bumping as James’ mouth was on Francis’, fully and completely. James had not let Francis kiss him since when his teeth started to come loose.

Francis was steady and warm and hopeful. There was no desperation or hesitancy or fear or hurt or danger. Francis kissed him back, leaning back slightly before his lips found renewed purpose in kissing James.

“Do you remember the rockets?” James asked breathlessly when they finally parted.

“Of course I do. The last we saw of the creature, he had that large mass of burnt fur thanks to you.” Francis grinned, his arms about James’ waist.

“It was the first time I felt useful. Made up somewhat for Carnival. Prove myself to you before I died.” His arms were looped around Francis’ shoulders.

“Oh James.” Francis sighed ruefully. “You have always been useful. Couldn’t have plotted a course home without you. Wouldn’t have wanted to. Would have stayed north. Taken up seal-hunting.”

“Hmmm.” James smiled again, keeping his lip over the gap. “I have a question for you,” he said, looking down.

Francis gave a low chuckle.

“No question is needed, James, but I will hear you out.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thank yous to Kami for this incredible art at the end of James being an incorrigible rake. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
> 
> https://twitter.com/kamidog

“Time to go put on a show,” James said, looking in the mirror. He had one finger hooked in his upper lip, inspecting his most recent dental work, the replacement canine, done in gold. He took his hand away, curling the lip up, moving his head back and forth to look at it from different angles. “I was nearly used to not having it and now there’s something foreign there.” He pressed at it with his tongue.

“I wish more people could see the true James,” Francis said gently, buttoning his waistcoat and checking his cuffs.

“Oh, they don’t wish it. Besides, what if I were to tell you I only want you to see it?”

“Suppose I would count myself lucky, unless it’s you telling the Chinese sniper story again.”

James made a small harrumphing noise, running his hand through his hair. He’d grown it long again, a large silver streak emerging from his temple.

“I look like a polecat,” he muttered.

“Or a badger. Badgers are very handsome.” Francis helped James into his jacket. “You did once say that we were at the end of vanity, like a lovesick poet.” James shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, I thought we were going to die.” He reached for his walking stick.

Francis smiled. “You look shiny and new. New coat of paint, fresh sails, you’ll…” He stopped himself.

James’ eyes narrowed in recognition.

“Do you think I’m too handsome for the likes of you? Remember, I’m still missing those two back teeth.” He leaned in, biting his lip. “We could skip the party.”

“Not this time. You’ll simply have to imagine what we’ll do upon our return.” Francis was pleased to see James blush.

\- - -

“I’m falling apart,” James had explained one evening, the first night that he had tiptoed across the hall to Francis’ room, gripping the hem of his shirt as though it might blow away.

“Then I’ll put you back together,” Francis had replied, taking his hand and leading him to his bed, large, much too large for one man alone, yet they had pretended, for the sake of appearances, to find a home with two large bedrooms in addition to guest rooms. James had thought he’d last perhaps a week sleeping in his own bed.

One night alone was enough to send him knocking on Francis’ door.

They hadn’t even done much that night, James content to curl into Francis, periodically opening his eyes to peer at him.

“Still here,” Francis mumbled.

“I keep thinking this is a dream, a very good one, and that we’ll all awaken, back…back there.”

Francis had pinched him, James smacking at his hand.

“You seem real enough, James.”

“Scoundrel.”

He never seemed to sleep as soundly as Francis, but it was still a comfort to wake up, sweating or trembling, heart racing, to reach over and find a warm shoulder, or better yet, an arm wrapped tight around him, as though he were adrift at sea, only to discover his anchor chain had gotten tangled on something.

And Francis, steady, mulish Francis, who let him sleep in on days when his bones ached, who read aloud when his eyes tired, who answered nearly every invitation with _kindest regards but I must decline,_ who huffed and grumbled over foul weather and weak tea. Who let James do all manner of things to him and did them in return, whose eyes would roll back whenever James’ grip tightened just so, whose cheeks would darken when James whispered in his ear.

They hadn’t returned whole. Some part of him had gotten left behind, but damn if Francis didn’t fit into those missing spots just so. Francis seemed to act sometimes as though it was an odd pairing, the two of them, as though he was unsuited for James, as though it wouldn’t wrench and break something deep inside James should they ever part.

 _Stubborn, silly man,_ James thought, his eyes darting to where Francis stood by the hearth. _And mine, entirely._

\- - -

Across the room, James was leaning forward, his sherry glass held up. Francis knew that look anywhere. “Size of a cherry.” There was the gesture, his finger and thumb in a circle. It was much smaller, James had confessed, but that would have been terribly unexciting.

Francis smiled to himself. James, ever the performer, balancing on that tightrope that Francis had never managed. He was more the lion tamer, jabbing away with chair and whip.

A glint caught his eye. 

He looked up, James’ gold tooth catching the light in the dimness. From here, at this angle, James looked as he had so many years ago, if Francis’ eyes slipped over the silvered hair, the cane, the gold canine. Francis saw both versions of James. Not that there was one version for him and one for everyone else, but that they all saw only half, and he, he had the whole.

James glanced up, seeing Francis’ stare. He grinned wider, running the tip of his tongue along the underside of that tooth, worrying at it for the briefest moment, Francis’ heart thudding in his chest before James turned back to his rapt audience.

“You like that gold tooth too much,” he mumbled as he undressed James, who tired easily, but still wanted to “tumble you as hard as I’m able,” he’d said into Francis’ ear at the party, standing behind him and slipping one hand into Francis’, where he’d had them clasped behind his back out of habit.

“I like to be admired, especially by those who won’t see what a ruin I look like naked.” He hadn’t let Francis see him fully in the nude until this evening with the gold tooth completed. It was true, James probably did not look the way he had before. His wounds had healed with more scarring, James had said, and his muscles had wasted away, taking time to rebuild.

“You are…hm.” Francis smiled, pulling his shirt off. “Are you familiar with Saint Sebastian?”

“Shot full of arrows?” James was wrestling his trousers off.

“And survived yet.”

They knew the outline of each other, so the exploration was not one of discovery, but of re-familiarity. Francis kissed along James’ neck, down, lips tracing the bullet scar on his arm, his chest, finding one nipple and circling it with his tongue until James arched up, gasping and sighing, his prick hard against Francis.

“May I?” James asked, his voice low. “On your side, Captain.” He had described it, in shockingly lurid detail one afternoon while they were out at a park, leaning over Francis under the guise of pointing out a line of poetry in Francis’ book. Francis, seasoned sailor though he was, found himself blushing like a maid. “Would you like that?” James had murmured. Francis had nodded. He was intrigued.

“Careful now. Ready?” James whispered. For a man with a bad leg and sapped strength, James was all over Francis, his chest flush with Francis’ back.

“All right?” he murmured, waiting for Francis to nod before pressing a finger into him, warm and slick, Francis tensing, James waiting, patient, a kiss along his shoulder.

“Touch yourself, Francis. I’d see you do that.”

Francis got a hand on himself, but he was so terribly distracted by James and his long elegant fingers. One became two, James curling them in such a way as to harden Francis’ cock, Francis arching away and crying out.

“Christ, James, it’s…”

Francis thought James had forgotten that last bit, the quiet compliment about how Francis would look, exactly, the way Francis’ ears had burned acutely, but clearly James hadn’t.

“You’re doing so well, Francis, does it feel good? I can’t wait to be in you. Do you want that?” he near purred into Francis’ ear.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Francis huffed out.

Fingers were replaced with James’ cock, hard and slicked as well. 

“Careful there, I’ll be careful, but-”

“James if you don’t-”

He slid in, Francis bucking up.

“God, Francis, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“No, keep going.”

James kissed his neck, reaching one arm across Francis’ shoulder between his head and the blanket, the other opening Francis’ leg, pushing his thigh forward, James’ hips shifting as he pressed in, exquisitely stretching Francis.

“Steady,” James said. “Steady on, Francis?”

He found he could only nod and groan. James, naturally, couldn’t shut up, not that Francis minded, James’ words filling his ears.

“Christ, Francis, you feel so good. Taking me so well.” He urged Francis onto his knees. “I know you can handle this.” With a strength Francis hadn’t thought he had, James pulled Francis up, Francis burying his face in the blanket, James’ hips meeting him again, slowly, filling him up.

“Put a hand on yourself, Francis. Want to see you finish.” James withdrew slowly, thrusting in again. And again. And again, his hands gripping Francis’ hips hard.

Francis ached. His cock ached, wetness beading at the tip. His balls ached. His stomach tensed and burned with need as James jutted his hips into Francis, thrusting again.

“You’re so good.” James’ voice was hoarse, his hips thrusting unsteadily. Francis got a hand on himself, tugging, not caring to try and time the thrust, his prick hard and leaking. His knees were well-used and sore. James was thrusting more erratically now, babbling out praise.

Another thrust and Francis’ need crested, spilling into his hand and onto the sheets, his knees giving out, James collapsing on top of him, hips jutting once more before slipping out, a burst of warmth on Francis’ back.

“Good lord, James,” Francis said, laughing, his breath still ragged. “Next time I’m going to gag you first.”

“Mmmm.” James was wiping him down before enveloping him in his arms like some kind of octopus. _One with elbows_ , Francis mused.

“I once wanted you to earn me, did you know that?” James asked, his voice muffled from where his lips pressed to Francis’ shoulder. “As though I were a prize.”

“And what a prize you are. Have I?”

A sigh warmed Francis’ neck. “You’ve more than done so. I endeavor to earn you, to make up for all my failings, all the times I underestimated you. My weaknesses. My foibles.” His lips traced along the vertebrae. “You captain my heart, Francis.”

Francis rolled over.

“Oh you treacly bastard,” he muttered, wrapping James in his arms, kissing him soundly. James’ eyes were large and damp, his lip quivering a bit. “I have you, James. And I love you.”

A small smile broke across his face. “I love you, Francis. And I have you.” He grinned.

Francis reached forward with a finger, touching that gold tooth.

“The start of your next story, James.”

James bit the tip lightly before letting go.

“Only if you’ll help me tell it.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story started with "What would happen if Francis and James banged right after the wardroom scene?" but then morphed into one giant fix-it. Hope you liked it!
> 
> Come find me on twitter @kiingbooooo (two i's!), and Kami (@kamidog), thank you again for the amazing art!!


End file.
